Bernard Cornwell - Alfred the Great - Pale Horseman

227 Pages·2016·2.19 MB·English

by  Cornwell Bernard

Published by Harper Collins Publishers 2005
77 – 85 Fulham Palace Road, Hammersmith
London W6 8JB

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales
is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved

Copyright © 2005 by Bernard Cornwell

Bernard Cornwell asserts his moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Libraries

ISBN 0 00 714992-1

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or
mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,
without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law
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is for

George MacDonald Fraser

In admiration
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The spelling of place-names in Anglo-Saxon England was an uncertain business, with no
consistency and no agreement even about the name itself. Thus London was variously rendered as
Lundonia, Lundenberg, Lundenne, Lundene, Lundenwic, Lundenceaster and Lundres. Doubtless some
readers will prefer other versions of the names listed below, but I have usually employed whichever
spelling is cited in the Oxford Dictionary of English Place-Names for the years nearest or contained
within Alfred's reign, 871-899 AD, but even that solution is not foolproof. Hayling Island, in 956, was
written as both Heilincigae and Haeglingaiggae. Nor have I been consistent myself; I use England
instead of Englaland, and have preferred the modern form Northumbria to Norohymbralond to avoid
the suggestion that the boundaries of the ancient kingdom coincide with those of the modern county.
So this list, like the spellings themselves, is far from accurate.
Æsc's Hill Ashdown, Berkshire
Æthlingaeg Athelney, Somerset
Afen River Avon, Wiltshire
Andefera Andover, Wiltshire
Babum (pronounced Bathum) Bath, Avon
Bebbanburg Bamburgh Castle, Northumberland
Brant Brent Knoll, Somerset
Bru River Brue, Somerset
Cippanhamm Chippenham, Wiltshire
Contwaraburg Canterbury, Kent
Cornwalum Cornwall
Cracgelad Cricklade, Wiltshire
Cridianton Crediton, Devon
Cynuit Cannington, Somerset
Daerentmora Dartmoor, Devon
Defereal Kingston Deverill, Wiltshire
Defnascir Devonshire
Domwaraceaster Dorchester, Dorset
Dreyndynas 'Fort of Thorns', fictional,
Dunholm Durham, County Durham
Dyfed South-West Wales, mostly now Pembrokeshire
Dyflin Dublin, Eire
Eoferwic York (also the Danish Jorvic, pronounced Yorvik)
Ethandun Edington, Wiltshire
Exanceaster Exeter, Devon
Exanmynster Exminster, Devon
Gewaesc The Wash
Gifle Yeovil, Somerset
Gleawecestre Gloucester, Gloucestershire
Hamptonscir Hampshire
Hamtun Southampton, Hampshire
Lindisfarena Lindisfarne (Holy Island), Northumberland
Lundene London
Lundi Lundy Island, Devon
Maerlebeorg Marlborough, Wiltshire
Ocmundtun Okehampton, Devon
Palfleot Pawlett, Somerset
Pedredan River Parrett
Penwith Land's End, Cornwall
Readingum Reading, Berkshire
Saefern River Severn
Sceapig Isle of Sheppey, Kent
Scireburnan Sherborne, Dorset
Sillans The Scilly Isles
Soppan Byrg Chipping Sudbury, Gloucester
Sumorsaete Somerset
Suth Seaxa Sussex (South Saxons)
Tamur River Tamar
Temes River Thames
Thon River Tone, Somerset
Thornsaeta Dorset
Uisc River Exe
Werham Wareham, Dorset
Wilig River Wylye
Wiltunscir Wiltshire
Wimburnan Wimborne Minster, Dorset

Wintanceaster Winchester, Hampshire
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These days I look at twenty-year-olds and think they are pathetically young, scarcely weaned from
their mothers' tits, but when I was twenty I considered myself a full-grown man. I had fathered a child,
fought in the shield wall, and was loath to take orders from anyone. In short I was arrogant, stupid and
headstrong. That is why, after our victory at Cynuit, I did the wrong thing.

We had fought the Danes beside the ocean, where the river runs from the great swamp and the
Saefern Sea slaps on a muddy shore, and there we had beaten them. We had made a great slaughter
and I, Uhtred of Bebbanburg, had done my part. In fact, more than my part, for at the battle's end,
when the great Lothbrokson, most feared of all the Danish leaders, had cut into our shield wall with his
great war axe, I had faced him, beat him and sent him to join the einherjar, that army of the dead to
feast and swive in Odin's corpse-hall.

What I should have done then, what Leofric told me to do, is to ride hard to Exanceaster where
Alfred, King of the West Saxons was besieging Guthrum. I should have arrived deep in the night, woken
the king from his sleep and laid Ubba's battle bane of the black raven and Ubba's great war axe, its
blade still stained with blood, at Alfred's feet. I should have given the king the news that the Danish
army was beaten, that the few survivors had been taken to their dragon-headed ships, that Wessex was
safe and that I, Uhtred of Bebbanburg, had achieved all of those things. Instead I rode to find my wife
and child.

At twenty years old I would rather have been ploughing Mildrith than reaping the reward of my
good fortune, and that is what I did wrong, but, looking back, I have few regrets. Fate is inexorable,
and Mildrith, though I had not wanted to marry her and though I came to detest her, was a lovely field
to plough.

So, in that late spring of the year 877, I spent the Saturday riding to Cridianton instead of going to
Alfred. I took twenty men with me and I promised Leofric that we would be at Exanceaster by midday
on Sunday and I would make certain Alfred knew we had won his battle and saved his kingdom.

'Odda the Younger will be there by now,' Leofric warned me. Leofric was almost twice my age, a
warrior hardened by years of fighting the Danes. 'Did you hear me?' he asked when I said nothing.
'Odda the Younger will be there by now,' he said again, 'and he's a piece of goose shit who'll take all the
credit.'

'The truth cannot be hidden,' I said loftily.

Leofric mocked that. He was a bearded squat brute of a man who should have been the commander
of Alfred's fleet, but he was not well-born and Alfred had reluctantly given me charge of the twelve
ships because I was an ealdorman, a noble, and it was only fitting that a high-born man should
command the West Saxon fleet even though it had been much too puny to confront the massive array
of Danish ships that had come to Wessex's south coast. 'There are times,' Leofric grumbled, 'when you
are an earsling.' An earsling was something that had dropped out of a creature's backside and was one
of Leofric's favourite insults. We were friends.

'We'll see Alfred tomorrow,' I said.

'And Odda the Younger,' Leofric said patiently, 'has seen him today.'

Odda the Younger was the son of Odda the Elder who had given my wife shelter, and the son did
not like me. He did not like me because he wanted to plough Mildrith, which was reason enough for
him to dislike me. He was also, as Leofric said, a piece of goose shit, slippery and slick, which was
reason enough for me to dislike him.
'We shall see Alfred tomorrow,' I said again, and next morning we all rode to Exanceaster, my men
escorting Mildrith, our son and his nurse, and we found Alfred on the northern side of Exanceaster
where his green and white dragon banner flew above his tents. Other banners snapped in the damp
wind, a colours array of beasts, crosses, saints and weapons announcing that the great men of Wessex
were with their king. One of those banns showed a black stag, which confirmed that Leofric had been
right and that Odda the Younger was here in south Defnascir.
Outside the camp, between its southern margin and the city walls, was a great pavilion made of
sail-cloth stretched across guyed poles, a sign that told me that Alfred, instead of fighting Guthrum,
was talking to him. They were negotiating a truce, though not on that day for it was a Sunday and
Alfred would do no work on a Sunday if he could help it. I found him on his knees in a makeshift
church made from another poled sail-cloth, and all his nobles and thegns were arrayed behind him,
and some of those men turned as they heard our horses' hooves. Odda the Younger was one of the men
who turned and I saw the apprehension show on his narrow face.
The bishop who was conducting the service paused to let the congregation make a response, and
that gave Odda an excuse to look away from me. He was kneeling close to Alfred, very close, suggesting
that he was high in the king's favour, and I did not doubt that he had brought the dead Ubba's raven
banner and war axe to Exanceaster and claimed the credit for the fight beside the sea.

'One day,' I said to Leofric, 'I shall slit that bastard from the crotch to the gullet and dance on his
offal.'

'You should have done it yesterday.'

A priest had been kneeling close to the altar, one of the many priests who always accompanied
Alfred, and he saw me and slid backwards as unobtrusively as he could until he was able to stand and
hurry towards me. He had red hair, a squint, a palsied left hand and an expression of astonished joy
on his ugly face.

'Uhtred,’ he called as he ran towards our horses, 'Uhtred! We thought you were dead!'

I grinned at the priest. 'Dead?'

'You were a hostage!'

I had been one of the dozen English hostages in Werham, and while the others had been murdered
by Guthrum, I had been spared because of Earl Ragnar who was a Danish war-chief and as close to me
as a brother.

'I didn't die, father,' I said to the priest, whose name was Beocca, 'and I'm surprised you did not
know that.'

'How could I know it?'

'Because I was at Cynuit, father, and Odda the Younger could have told you that I was there and
that I lived.'

I was staring at Odda as I spoke and Beocca caught the grimness in my voice.

'You were at Cynuit?' he asked nervously.

'Odda the Younger didn't tell you?'

'He said nothing.'

'Nothing!' I kicked my horse forward, forcing it between the kneeling men and thus loser to Odda.
Beocca tried to stop me, but I pushed his hand away from my bridle. Leofric, wiser than me, held back,
but I pushed the horse into the back rows of the congregation until the press of worshippers made it
impossible to advance further, and then I stared at Odda as I spoke to Beocca.
'He didn't describe Ubba's death?' I asked.

'He says Ubba died in the shield wall,' Beocca said, his voice a hiss so that he did not disturb the
liturgy, 'and that many men contributed to his death.'

'Is that all he told you?'

'He says he faced Ubba himself,' Beocca said.

'So who do men think killed Ubba Lothbrokson?' I asked.

Beocca could sense trouble coming and he tried to calm me.

'We can talk of these things later,' he said, 'but for now, Uhtred, join us in prayer.'

He used my name rather than calling me lord because he had known me since I was a child.
Beocca, like me, was a Northumbrian, and he had been my father's priest, but when the Danes took
our country he had come to Wessex to join those Saxons who still resisted the invaders.

'This is a time for prayer,' he insisted, 'not for quarrels.'

But I was in a mood for quarrels. 'Who do men say killed Ubba Lothbrokson?' I asked again.

'They give thanks to God that the pagan is dead,' Beocca evaded my question, and tried to hush my
voice with frantic gestures from his palsied left hand.

'Who do you think killed Ubba?' I asked, and when Beocca did not answer, I provided the answer
for him.

'You think Odda the younger killed him?' I could see that Beocca did believe that, and the anger
surged in me.

'Ubba fought me man on man,' I said, too loudly now, 'one on one, just me and him. My sword
against his axe. And he was unwounded when the fight began, father, and at the end of it he was dead.
He had gone to his brothers in the corpse-hall.'

I was furious now and my voice had risen until I was shouting, and the distracted congregation all
turned to stare at me. The bishop, whom I recognised as the bishop of Exanceaster, the same man who
had married me to Mildrith, frowned nervously.
Only Alfred seemed unmoved by the interruption, but then, reluctantly, he stood and turned
towards me as his wife, the pinch-faced Ælswith, hissed into his ear.

'Is there any man here,' I was still shouting, 'who will deny that I, Uhtred of Bebbanburg, killed
Ubba Lothbrokson in single combat?'

There was silence. I had not intended to disrupt the service, but monstrous pride and ungovernable
rage had driven me to defiance. The faces gazed at me, the banners flapped in the desultory wind and
the small rain dripped from the edges of the sailcloth awning. Still no one answered me, but men saw
that I was staring at Odda the Younger and some looked to him for a response, but he was struck
dumb.

'Who killed Ubba?' I shouted at him.

'This is not seemly,' Alfred said angrily.

'This killed Ubba!' I declared, and I drew Serpent-Breath.